Page 66 of The Bodyguard

“So what do we do?” she asked.

Mitch stepped closer, his voice lowering. “We feed them another string. Something deeper. You give them access to a vote you’re supposedly waffling on—let them bite, let them pass it to Halstrom, and then we burn the entire network to the ground.”

She stared up at him. “You’re going to play them.”

“No,” he said. “I’m going to hunt them.”

Andi’s eyes didn’t flinch. She stepped in close enough that her fingers brushed his chest. “And if they try again?”

“They won’t get the chance.” Mitch reached up, cupped her jaw with a slow, deliberate grip. “You’re mine to protect. And now I know who they are—I can stop holding back.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t kiss her. He just held her gaze, letting the weight of his promise fill the space between them.

Because this wasn’t politics anymore. It was war, and Mitch Langdon played for keeps.

* * *

Elmo’s was the kind of place that hadn’t changed in thirty years, because it hadn’t needed to.

Booths with worn leather. Coffee that never stopped flowing. Grease on the walls and a no-bullshit attitude behind the counter. The kind of spot that existed on a handshake system between cops, feds, political rats, and ex-military types who wanted their breakfast without questions and their meetings without surveillance.

Which was exactly why Mitch picked it.

Neutral territory didn’t necessarily mean safe—it meant visible. No one drew a weapon here unless they were ready to lose a hand. And Elmo’s people? They didn’t ask what your business was, but they’d break ribs if you brought your mess inside the walls.

Nick Ryeland slid into the booth across from Mitch at 5:37 p.m. sharp. Clean-cut, lean muscle, Cerberus to the bone. He hid his eyes behind dark lenses, but Mitch didn’t need to see them to know he was scanning the room. Every doorway. Every face. The same way he’d been doing since they arrived.

“He’s late,” Nick said.

“He’s trying to make it look casual,” Mitch replied. “Wants to show he’s not nervous.”

Nick didn’t smile. “He should be.”

The door opened. The bell jingled. The target stepped in.

Tobias Crane. Wexler’s mid-level staff rat. Technically a campaign aide, unofficially a PAC runner. Forty-two, smug, balding, lived off the expense account and the illusion of relevance. He had the kind of ambition that leaked out of cheap suits and smug grins, and tonight was no different.

Crane walked in like he owned the place and spotted Mitch immediately. That brief flicker of recognition passed over his face—just a twitch—but Mitch caught it.

The guy knew exactly who he was sitting down with.

Crane slid into the booth with a greasy smile. “You must be Langdon. Cerberus must be charging Donato overtime if they’re sending you.”

Mitch didn’t speak. Just stared.

Nick’s mouth twitched. Maybe a smile. Maybe a threat.

Crane glanced between them, then leaned back in the booth like he was about to order dessert. “What’s this, some kind of unofficial deposition? You boys look like you lost your badges.”

“Cut the performance,” Mitch said. “We know you’ve been coordinating payment routes from Halstrom’s office. We have the shell company files, the bank traces, and Lennox’s sync data.”

Crane’s smirk held. “If you had all that, I’d already be in cuffs.”

Mitch leaned forward, voice low. Controlled. “I’m not a cop, Crane. I’m not here to arrest you. My job—my only job—is to protect Andrea Donato, and that I will do. I’m here to offer you one chance to stay above ground.”

That hit. It was quick—a flash of tension around Crane’s eyes—but Mitch saw it. Crane wasn’t a field guy. He was a chess piece. And the second someone like him realized they were sitting across from someone who didn’t need a warrant to ruin their life, they started squirming.

“You don’t have leverage,” Crane said, but the words were thinner now. “If this is about Wexler…”

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